Us of Lesser Gods
by LaydeeGodiva
Summary: Joy Ford is the best thief in Gotham. Never been caught by the police. Never been caught by the Dark Knight. When she's commissioned by Penguin to steal from the Gotham museum, things start to get out of hand. -No pairings as of late. 'T' for language.-


Another Batman fanfic with my newest character, Joy Ford. Written in first person present tense, because it's a challenge for me to do so. I'm giving myself a little test with this story to see if I can stay in present tense the entire way through!

Language worsens when Joy is angry; fair warning to those who can't handle people dropping the 'eff-bomb.'

Disclaimer: I don't own any Batman related things that are mentioned and referred to in this fic. It is purely fan written for my (and your own) enjoyment.

I'll update if people want me to :3

* * *

"Shh!" I warn, slapping my fool-hearted accomplice in the side of the head.

"Sorry," he replies quietly, moving his hand up to where I'd hit him. I look down at the broken vase, the water slowly spreading across the marble floor. The flowers--azaleas and magnolias-- look less than bright now that their home is gone and they lay on the cold marble. I hear one of the chairs scrape in the room over.

"Move it!" I hiss, jerking my comrade by the arm into the parlor of Wayne Manor. I force him down behind an arm chair to hide. I peer out from beneath the chair and watch the owner of the mansion--billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne-- kneel and examine the broken vase. Two teenaged boys exit the room after him, each brandishing fireplace tools as weapons, much like Bruce, who held the fireplace poker.

It is then that I realize the wet boot-marks our snow-dampened have left on the foyer's rug.

"Shit," I curse quietly.

"What?" questions my impaired friend loudly. I slam my elbow into his rubs, but the damage has been done. The three weapon wielding men are striding across the foyer toward our hiding place. I sigh in frustration and glare at my partner, frowning.

"I blame you for this," I spit as I yank the .45 pistol from its snug holster at the back of my belt. I rise to a kneel, still perfectly concealed by the chair, and take the clip from my jacket's pocket. I shove it into the bottom of the gun, then pull the slide back to load a bullet into the chamber. I stand, and the playboy and his guests freeze in their tracks. I'm not sure if it's the gun that does it, or my appearance.

I wear a faded pair of mechanic's overalls, the sleeves tied around my waist, acting as a sort of belt, though I wore one of those too. My long, grey thermal shirt is tucked into my overalls, and my pant leg's are tucked into my calf high chestnut work boots. One of which is missing its tongue. I have an old, military issue park that is missing its hood. My dark amber hair is pulled back into a knot of dread locks, the bun-like mass resting at the back of my neck. I have a dark maroon headband that covers my ears, and a black and white scarf that is coiled around my neck. My hands are covered with mismatched gloves, both fingerless, and the black nail polish is chipping off of my dirty nails. The one out of place thing, I'm sure, are my glasses. They're shiny black, perching on the bridge of my nose like an eagle on a cliff. On one side is the insignia of the exclusive designer in shiny, gold, looping letters.

"Don't call the cops," I say to the trio in an even tone. "My friend and I will leave. No questions asked." I pull my accomplice to his feet roughly, still keeping my pistol trained on the three men. I walk out from behind the chair, and the three move to my left to allow my passing. My comrade and I reach the door without incident, and I jerk it open with one hand. I push him out, then exit myself, slamming the door behind me.

* * *

"Dammit, Oliver!" I shout as soon as we are back on Gotham's downtown streets. I slam my fist into the side of his head. "There is no way in _hell _you're staying with me anymore!"

"You should have just shot them!" retorts my short friend.

"Oh, yeah, and then have a murder on my hands!" I exclaim. "I. Don't. Kill."

"It would sure make robbing a helluva lot easier," Oliver says, rubbing his bare hands together to warm them.

"Then you can do it," I spit. "Next time you rob someone. But you can bet your ass I won't be with you." I turn and head down the alley to our right.

"Joy! Joy, wait!" Oliver calls, rushing after me.

"Go home, Oliver," I say, shoving my hands under my armpits. "I don't want you around me."

"Aw, come on, Joy," he whines. "I don't have a home!" I turn to face him, huffing angrily as I do.

"Then go somewhere! I don't need you around me anymore!" I shout. "You are nothing but a short nuisance, who seems to be incapable of doing anything but fucking things up! Just go away!" I turn heel and stomp off down the alley, leaving Oliver to stare after me.

"Well, fine!" he yells after a moment. I snort to myself as I round the corner, pulling my parka around me tighter to keep the brisk December air at bay. As I pass by a payphone, the thing begins to ring. I raise one eyebrow at it, then pull it from its hook.

"Hello?" I ask.

"Miss Ford," comes a sophisticated voice. It is almost British, though not quite. "I have a proposition for you, my dear."

"What sort of proposition?" I ask, leaning against the frame of the payphone as I twirl the chord in my hand.

"Oh, one I'm certain you'll be more than willing to accept," replies the voice. "If you would be so kind as to remain where you are, I shall send one of my men to come and fetch you so we can talk business."

"Sounds like a plan," I say, then click the phone back on its hook. As I wait, I pull my package of cigarettes from the pocket of my parka. I shake my last one out, then crumple the box in my hand and throw it onto the sidewalk. With the nicotine stick in my mouth, I grab my matchbook and strike one, bringing it to the end of my cigarette and watching the paper and tobacco burn. I shake the match out and throw the stick next to the crumpled box. I inhale deeply and smile.

"Joy Ford," comes a voice to my left. I look over. A man stands there, six feet tall minimum, with a shaven head and a suit. "My employer will see you now." I straighten from my leaned back position, and hold out my hand for him to shake. He doesn't take my offer.

"Alright," I say, shoving my hand into my pocket. "Where are we headed, then?"

* * *

We come to a stop on Gotham Harbor, outside of a large warehouse. The man opens the side door, and I step through, looking around at the boxes and crates in the dim lighting the dying light bulbs offer.

"Ah, Miss Ford!" comes the voice from the phone. I turn to see a squat little man waddling toward me. He wears a suit--complete with tail-coat-- and a black top hat. A monocle covers his right eye, and a umbrella is clutched in his left hand. He holds out his right one to me. "I am Oswald Cobblespot," he introduces. I take his hand and shake it.

"Otherwise known as the Penguin," I say. He gives me a smile and a nod. I know about this guy. One of Gotham's most notorious villains; should be up in Arkham. But hey, a proposition's a proposition. "So what're you offering, Oswald?" I ask, skipping straight to first name basis. It makes your client think you mean business. Serious business. It works on Oswald.

"You don't mince words, Miss Ford," says the short man. "But first some tea." He motions his arm to a china tea set and two chairs. "Please, have a seat." I sit down and rest my forearms on the tops of my thighs, staring at Oswald.

"I don't do tea," I say as he offers me a cup. He smiles again, nodding, and sets the cup back on its saucer. He grabs his own and takes a sip.

"You're well aware of the newest exhibit at the Gotham City Museum, are you not?" he asks. I nod.

"They made such a huge deal about it," I say with an eye-roll. "Who wouldn't know?" This makes Oswald chuckle slightly.

"That they did, that they did," he says. "This is where you come in, Miss Ford. You see, I know about your abilities as a thief, and I know that you've never been caught by the police; or the Batman. You've stolen countless items: precious gemstones, priceless works of art, ancient scriptures." He pauses to take a drink of tea as a smug smile spreads across my face. "What I am proposing," he continues, setting his tea cup back on its saucer, "is dangerous and leaves absolutely no room for mistakes, Miss Ford."

"I don't make mistakes," I say confidently. He gives me another smile.

"That is exactly why I am hiring you, my dear," Oswald says. He pulls out a roll of money and sets it next to the tea tray. I can already tell it's not enough before he speaks. "Fifteen thousand."

"Oswald," I say as I steeple my fingers beneath my chin, blinking slowly. "You want me to steal from one of the city's most heavily guarded establishments, risk my life for it, even, and all you're offering is fifteen thousand?" I lean back in my chair. "No deal." I see a flash of irritation cross his face, and he takes back the money, pocketing it.

"You are good, my dear," he says, his smile visible once more. "How much do you want."

"Ninety, just to commission me," I say. "It'll just go up, depending on what I'm to steal."

"A book," says Oswald quickly. "From the new exhibit. It is very precious to me." I think for a moment, watching with a bemused smile as I observe Oswald fidgeting uncomfortably in his chair. I have one of the most powerful men in Gotham under my thumb right now, and I'm going to get all that I can from him.

"Scripture," I say thoughtfully. "A hundred and fifty. Minimum."

"Done," Oswald says. He waves a hand, and one of his henchmen bring over a briefcase. He opens it, and I take out one wad of hundred dollar bills. "The ninety now; the rest when I have the book," he says. I nod as I flip through the crisp edges of the bills.

"When do you need this thing by?" I ask, tossing the wad back into the briefcase. He snaps it closed.

"The exhibit leaves in a week," he informs me.

"Give me two days," I say as I stand, taking the briefcase from the stout businessman. I extend my hand and we shake. "Very nice doing business with you, Oswald."

* * *

Reviews are much appreciated, as are the other forms of showing you enjoyed my story.


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